


You Feed Me Fables From Your Hand

by R_Cookie



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Dark, Denial, Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, M/M, Multi, Mutilation, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Cookie/pseuds/R_Cookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a fine line between sanity and insanity. For Erik, revenge has long merged with rage into a convoluted mess. He had learnt to embrace it; fighting it was too exhausting. But there was always a tiny flicker in him that clung onto the notion of salvation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude I

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Charles/Erik - Love the way you lie part 2](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/3673) by Brevanna03. 



**I. ******

There were whispers. A strange prickling in his ears – Erik had noticed this whenever he was furious, in a tantrum; when he had actually retained a sliver of calm to be conscious. And then funny, frightening things would happen.

The cutleries had rattled, the pots had hovered, and pens had been reduced to thin paperweights.

He’d been frightened.

He hadn’t known it was because of him.

When his parents had stared in thinly veiled horror, equally baffled at the moving objects, Erik had told himself it was the work of ghosts.

But patterns arose and there was little to deny that these incidents, this inexplicable ability to control objects without touching them, were owed to him. He had been delighted, even if his parents looked on in worry.

He tried to hone it but nothing obeyed him, not unless he was angry or on the rare occasion, incandescently happy. But such occurrences were few and far between. Dark times had been approaching.

The Third Reich dawned like an overwhelming tide, engulfing everything in its path. There was no time for him to dwell on his power, not when every single day was a struggle for sanity in the camps. They had decided that Erik was not to reveal his power, because people feared the unknown and who knew what the Nazis would do to someone who wasn’t just a _Jew _but also an… abnormality.__

“Kannst du eine Missgeburt wie mich immer noch lieben?”

His mother had looked at him then, startled. That sad little smile which seemed to be the _only _smile she was able to summon these days, slowly curving the corners of chapped lips.__

“Genauso sehr wie ich dich immer geliebt habe.”

Erik had only focused on how she hadn’t corrected him.

He was a freak of nature.

\---

It isn’t until they are transferred to Auschwitz that Erik discovers that it isn’t just anything that will answer his call. Metal. And _only _metal.__

The gates seize. The wires bend. Everything screeches. His mind swerves to a new target, the guns slung around the soldiers, the demons – he screams for them to turn.

He feels the thrum of metal fast approaching him, but inexperience colors his world black.

The last thing he remembers is the pair of wild eyes staring at him from beyond his cage.

\---

Schmidt.

What a name. It clings to his tongue like a bad aftertaste.

Erik is yanked from the debilitating work of being a sonderkommando and dragged into an office. This is how they meet. His creator. The sire of his second life.

The man eyes him like he is nothing more than an insect beneath his military issued boot. Plaques hung on the wall behind Schmidt proclaim him part of the Nazi’s special research division. Erik doesn’t quite understand how he would be wanted, but then he does. His little display had been difficult to ignore.

The Nazi scrutinizes him, from his lack of emotion to his defeated hunch – he knows the man knows how dead he is inside. Carting off body after body that the world becomes entirely desensitized to you, seeing the emancipated carcasses and knowing that you are closer to that with every bleak day that passes; Erik no longer feels. Emotions have become something he’s shuttered tightly away – they have become something even more taboo than it had been upon the decision to keep his gift a secret.

There is a flicker, a feral glimmer in the grin that spreads across Herr Doktor’s face. A single coin is pushed deliberately across the table. Erik takes in the engravings, the swastika and the faint humming that sings to him. Mercury blue eyes look up and he barely registers the command.

“Ich habe interessante Dinge über dich gehört, Junge.” A neatly kept finger taps the desk. “Zeig es mir”

Panic flares inside him. It is simple enough an order and at this point, Erik believes his life can only improve – showing this man his gift, the one person who has _wanted _to see it may be the least destructive course of action.__

Erik nods his head absently, but stretches his hand out and attempts to focus. But for once, his mind will not shut up. Millions of images, scenes that have never played out before flash past him and echoes of a woman’s voice hold him back. He belatedly recognises it to be his mother’s.

He opens his eyes, fear edging into his chest; he knows from experience that such a man would never stand for delays.

Sure enough, the grin has faded into a sadistic twist of the lips. A tiny frown mars the high forehead as the man speaks, “Lüg mich nicht an! Ich weiß, dass du Metall kontrollieren kannst. **Versuch nicht mich für dumm zu verkaufen, Bengel!** ”.

Erik blinks. He stumbles, tries to tell the man that he cannot, that he has no control over his power, that it will not obey him as he so desires. He frantically attempts once more, but the desperation only clouds his concentration even more. He should have known better.

He hears a sigh. The Nazi looks remorseful for reasons Erik cannot fathom; it unsettles him. He knows this is far from over.

“Das war dein letzter Ausweg, Junge.” Herr Doktor gives an impatient wave of the hand to one of the soldiers standing guard by the door. A curt nod and the heavy door swings open to reveal a woman – his mother.

What happens next is a blur to Erik, but he will always recall them in flashes of emotions, vague expressions on faces, and the _angerangerangershockdisbeliefshock _ _ **RAGE** _that had boiled through him, consuming everything.____

And Erik thinks of blood; he bleeds into metal, he doesn’t want to be human any longer.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by all the x-men movies, but especially by First Class.
> 
> Translations:  
> Do you still love a freak of nature: _Kannst du eine Missgeburt wie mich immer noch lieben?_
> 
> As much as I always have: _Genauso sehr wie ich dich immer geliebt habe._
> 
> I've heard very interesting things about you, boy: _Ich habe interessante Dinge über dich gehört, Junge._
> 
> Now, show me: _Zeig es mir._
> 
> Do not lie. I know you have some control over metal. Do not try to fool me,brat!: _Lüg mich nicht an! Ich weiß, dass du Metall kontrollieren kannst. Versuch nicht mich für dumm zu verkaufen, Bengel!_
> 
> This was a last resort, boy: Das war dein letzter Ausweg, Junge.  
> I apologise for errors with the translations, please feel free to correct me and I'll make the changes.
> 
> (added at a later date: Oh my... How embarrassing. My eternal gratitude to CarpeDiem for the PROPER translations and phrases in German. They have been edited.


	2. Prelude II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose this might be a slight AU considering some of the scenes shown in the movie differ here in set up and in dialogue. So... yes, I've taken some liberties with it. Enjoy!

If Erik felt like an animal, he never mentioned it; if Erik had felt like Schmidt’s trained pet, he never rebelled against it. There was no point. Not after his first attempt which had left him broken in several places – not when he knew how serious Schmidt was about obedience and discipline, knew how painful Schmidt’s means of retaliation, of enforcing order could be.

It wasn’t too difficult to understand the rules.

Erik was in all ways but on paper, Schmidt’s puppet. The man encouraged anger, found ways to elicit any strong, negative reaction from Erik in hopes that his power would manifest. Schmidt encouraged them, sought restlessly for more means to spark that volatile tempest within Erik. Herr Doktor understood that fundamentally, there was nothing stronger than hatred, and unbridled fury to fuel Erik’s control over metal. But there were rules and Erik learnt it the hard way, that compartmentalization was a requirement. Schmidt’s presence became a switch, a trigger – he wasn’t allowed emotions outside of necessity and he was taught that emotions had only a single purpose.

The first time he’d liquefied the guards’ gun muzzles, and suffocated them by melting their helmets before moulding it to their faces, Erik had been thrown into isolation void of any metal. The numbing loss of contact and familiar hum of his element had strengthened his understanding of detachment – Schmidt would not tolerate any lack of self-control. So, Erik ingrained it into his head that emotions, and by which the understanding of the word had been narrowed to the circular torture of rage and fury, were only to be entertained under command.

Schmidt was a walking contradiction that Erik tried his best to ignore. He cared nothing for the humans though he conceded the effectiveness of the Nazi’s methods, yet he punished Erik for taking their lives. He had grand plans for the liquidation of the inferior race but lashed out at Erik for using his powers to kill, however by accident. It wasn’t till later that he understood the difference – that all those times he’d been castigated, Schmidt had done so simply to train Erik to his will; reinforcement training.

As though Erik was nothing more than a well-trained pet.

\---

It had been an accident, that first time.

Thrown into isolation yet again, Erik had paced, unable to stifle the monster thrashing for freedom well enough. He knew he wasn’t supposed to feel, not unless Herr Doktor dictated it but it was overwhelming. Time had served to dilute Erik’s understanding, no longer able to discern what it was that he experienced – everything felt like an extension of anger.

Erik didn’t know what to do with himself, he wanted to scream, he wanted to hate himself so much for even thinking of that, he wanted the comforting purr of metal under his fingers, he just wanted to _feel_.

He flexed his fingers, clenched them tight, restraining the maddening desire to punch something, his movements short and jerky, fisting his hair till it broached on being painful. And then by sheer misjudgement, Erik had swung his hand too close to the wall – there was an abrupt, jarring numbness to his forearm.

Blinking, Erik raised his hand closer for inspection and watched with a worrying dispassion as the superficial gash bled crimson. It had felt so strangely relieving to him; that startled lifting of concerns as the world narrowed to just the wound and the faint sting. It didn’t even hurt, not in the way he imagined such a laceration might – but he felt, it was tangible, there had been resistance; there was _feeling_.  
.  
And Erik craved it like any creature needed air.

\---

Memories clung to Erik in the day, but those he could manage, could immerse himself in whatever task Herr Doktor had for him that he’d forget. But if he quietly humoured the hatred that resided in some remote corner of his conscience for the man at all, then nights were a close second to that hatred. In sleep, there was no control, no way for him to push away the images, words, distorted scenes amplified by his subconscious thoughts; no way out of the nightmares.

He’d woken up on more than one occasion with anything remotely metallic in his tiny quarters bent or crushed.

He expressly dreaded that one recurring dream that never failed to incite an anxiety attack so intense Erik would be left clawing his way through it, whimpering at the strained helplessness.

 _The smell of gunpowder is overwhelming in the air and the weight of the pistol is always the same in Erik’s grasp. Adrenaline courses through his body as all the metal around him feels within his reach, united in lending their power to him. The stage of his dreams is not so much a smudged memory as it is a vivid reprint of events stamped into his memory system._

 _Every single time, there is smoke wafting from the muzzle, and there is a smile on Erik’s lips. Herr Doktor is faintly amused, seated on his chair and the coin on the table spins uncontrollably. The man raises his hand, a glistening pistol poised at a target Erik cannot see behind him. The pulling of the trigger staggers him though his smile clings doggedly on. Erik feels a splattering across his calves and he turns to see his mother’s body on the floor, a pool of blood collecting under her as crimson spurts from the bullet hole in her forehead._

 _Several more shots sound and Erik feels his body echoing every jolt of the lifeless body as the cartridge is emptied into it. Erik thinks that the surging emotion inside him is rage and despair. He turns to face Herr Doktor, bloodlust threatening to boil over when he realises abruptly that he is alone; every single seat, every single corner of the office is devoid of people – his mother’s mutilated body still remains riddled on the floor, immersed in her own blood._

 _Erik thinks he tries to clench his fist right then, but his thin fingers wrap itself around warm metal instead. Beyond his tear-fogged vision, he sees the pistol in his hand._

 _Every single time, there is smoke wafting from the muzzle._

Erik blinks when he imagines he has woken up and he shudders as his room reacquaints itself with him. He swipes at his face, chasing away his tears, the weakness; and flexes the hand that he’s dreamt of as the weapon. He finds that he hates to sleep; hates those days where he struggles to differentiate reality from dreams. Every morning, Erik reminds himself that Herr Doktor is the reason his mother is dead - it is the only way to keep him alive, to find a singular goal of revenge for when he is powerful enough. But Erik knows, knows only too well that for all his conviction, he might as well have been her murderer.

\---

Things began to change one morning, and Erik was instantly wary. Schmidt ordered him into a room with only a chair in the middle and a coin placed a metre from him. Unwittingly, he was strapped tightly to the wooden chair in his confusion as the binds cut painfully into his skin. Erik felt the presence of something small and metallic behind him a fraction too late, and the second it latched onto his bare flesh, an electric current surged through him.

Erik screamed.

“Beweg die Münze, Erik.” Herr Doktor’s voice somehow floated into the room. Erik imagined the man was observing him from behind the tinted panels. Erik’s breathing was heavy and every inch of his body felt raw. Gritting his teeth, he held his head high and answered.

“Ja, Herr Doktor.”

As he felt a faint tingling in the little metal piece attached to him, Erik involuntarily recalled the excruciating agony. Channelling the phantom pain, the coin danced noisily before levitating.

“Gut.”

The door creaked open and a soldier entered. Erik could see the tension in his shoulders, undoubtedly born of fear, Erik thought wryly to himself.

The soldier shifted the coin to a new mark on the floor. Hastily, the young man then left, shutting the door behind him.

“Also dann, Erik. Beweg die Münze jetzt noch einmal.” Erik breathed deep and focused. The coin rattled but did nothing more. Worry edging into his chest, he tried again. As the coin wobbled faintly, an unexpected burning flared all over him, every nerve shot and Erik couldn’t help but cry out. Unlike the last, Herr Doktor didn’t seem to have any intention of stopping.

“Beweg die Münze, Junge. Oder die Stromstöße werden weiter gehen.” Erik almost missed the order. Trying to stifle the whimpering that threatened to escape him, Erik gasped and all the pain spun into a ball of focus. The small presence of the coin suddenly seemed glaring, its existence startlingly tangible. With a nudge of his mind, Erik willed the coin to lift itself off the ground.

Erik’s body slumped in the binds as he felt the current cut off. Weakly, Erik noticed the process repeat itself.

“Herr Doktor, bitte. Ich kann es auch ohne die - diese Behandlung. Ich verspreche es.” Erik’s pleaded hoarsely.

He didn’t get a reply. So Erik took it as permission to continue. True enough, Erik forced himself to feel yet again for the presence of the coin as he had just done and it worked.

Schmidt announced his approval when the coin had moved at seven metres, he’d bestowed a clap at thirteen. But at fifteen, Erik could do no more. Without warning, the electricity returned with a vengeance. Erik vaguely recalls screaming till his voice cracked, till his nails raked helplessly against the wood and skin rubbed raw to blood. The coin had finally lifted shakily from the ground.

Erik blacked out in his attempts to move the coin placed twenty metres from where he sat.

\---

The guards hated him as much as they were wary of him. Stories had a taken a life of its own ever since he’d last killed a few of their comrades.

They’d found him eating a small piece of bread out behind the building and they’d known better than to bring anything remotely metallic on their person. Sheer strength alone would be enough – he was just a boy, after all.

Erik Lensherr was not special, he was as plain as they came and if he had not been the freak he was, the soldiers would not have cared one whit about him.

But as it were, the boy was a mutant, an abomination and that was all that mattered.

They’d cornered him easily, stripped him and overpowered him with pathetic ease – he was too frail to do a thing. Some of the men felt it necessary to roughen him up, a punishment befitting of someone like him. Bruises had formed on the gaunt face and blood leaked sluggishly from cuts on the limbs and lips by the time Leutnant Kahler had his turn. And by that time, the boy had long given up his mild struggle.

The Leutnant tried his best to ignore the lack of life in those dulled mercury green eyes.

\---

Erik felt incredibly numb inside, regardless of the fact that he had been injured badly enough to limp and scrabble for support in order to remain upright. He staggered past Herr Doktor’s office just as the man had been leaving. Erik knew that those calculating eyes did not miss a thing.

The man’s reaction had, however, caused his heart to harden itself further – Schmidt had merely laughed at his state.

\---

Once behind the door of his room, Erik stumbles to the little corner of his quarters to wash himself. He removes the offending scraps of clothing and cleans off the grime and stickiness that has been left on him. With every touch to the mess, Erik is made to relive the entire afternoon in his head. His fingers tremble and a sob breaks through the surface; the wooden pail clatters noisily to the floor.

Erik cannot begin to regain composure – his chances had been shot to hell the moment that sob had escaped his lips. He staggers backwards, tripping on his feet and lands wetly to a jarring pain from his lower half. Erik’s vision blurs horribly and he struggles for air amidst the muffled weeping. He feels so unclean, feels nothing inside; so _gottdamn_ fucking _numb_. The whimpering and moans that echo throughout the quarters do not seem to come from him, everything was suddenly too detached. Subconsciously, blunt nails rake raggedly down his sides, his thighs, any part of him that his fumbling hands can grapple onto, can feel the flesh pull in resistance. Red lines trail those fingers, stark against his pale, almost translucent skin. Erik is only dimly aware that he is screaming in frustration, curled up on himself.

This is his room, and Erik knows it like the back of his hand, knows what is kept behind the loose brick in the wall. Almost in a trance, Erik crawls to it, ignoring the cold upon his naked body. Everything else is secondary to his current goal.

He winces as his skin breaks in his removal of the brick; his skin is too dry, too fragile. Erik feels for the metal shard and comes away with a twisted sense of triumph. In the faint light from the window, Erik draws it steadily against his forearm, ready to feel the familiar relief; a _feeling_. He is panicked to find none. He tries again and again, his thigh, his chest, the hollow of his neck – nothing. It did not even matter that he had forgotten what little strength he possessed and had placed a little too much on the last one, that the most blood was flowing mercilessly from it even in comparison to the others.

Erik felt like something else had died in him and he only vaguely feels surprise at the fact that he’d even had anything else to lose in the first place. His only release had failed him too.

\---

Erik had been drifting for most of his time. The idea of suicide becoming too real an option as the days went by. Escape seemed too futile to even consider in his state. He was too weak, too incredibly pathetic that not even his gift would be of much use. Freedom had become an abstract notion. Revenge, even more so.

It takes the murder of his last surviving family member to wake him up. Schmidt had imagined the only effective way to jolt his pet out of his funk was to repeat what had made the boy his in the first place. Herr Doktor had forced Erik to watch as his father was burned alive, right across the table where the boy sat bound to his seat. Schmidt watched as clarity returned to those beautiful eyes and an unreadable flicker of something brewing beneath the expressionless mask.

Erik finally understood then, that there would no longer be room for failure. He could not die without avenging his parents – because he knew that he had the power to see it done. Erik thinks it is the realisation once more of just how Schmidt had destroyed his life that sparks his determination; that he cannot in good conscience continue on the belief that it would be easier to die. Anything worth fighting for is never achieved without sacrifice… Erik recalls his father saying that once, a lifetime ago.

So Erik swears on his life that he will not rest until _Herr Doktor_ dies by his hand, along with all the others who had ever done him wrong. He has suffered under the actions of those who had just been following orders, and he never shall again.

Everything is changed. He has a plan, a concrete aim in mind and Erik is not one to go back on his word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Schmidt: Move the coin, little Erik. "Beweg die Münze, Erik."
> 
> Schmidt: Now then, little Erik, move the coin this time. "Also dann, Erik. Beweg die Münze jetzt noch einmal."
> 
> Schmidt: Move. the. coin, boy. Or the current will carry on. "Beweg die Münze, Junge. Oder die Stromstöße werden weiter gehen."
> 
> Erik: Herr Doktor, please. I can do this without the - the treatment. I promise. "Herr Doktor, bitte. Ich kann es auch ohne die - diese Behandlung. Ich verspreche es."


	3. Into The Midnight Sun

**III.**

When Erik meets Charles, he remembers that it was a lot like finally being able to breathe.

But for all that Charles seems godsent and a long overdue good turn of Karma, given all that Erik has been made to endure, Erik thinks he really must have done something to offend the gods in his previous life. He is far from impressed by _Their_ unflattering sense of humor. Charles is his equal, that one person Erik never dared to hope he’d find – but it grates at him that they disagree on the most fundamental level.

Erik thinks, with great frustration, of cosmic imbalance.

\---

Erik knows all too well what he is – that if there ever were two sides to anything, Charles would be bathed in light, and he in the shadows. He knows that he is broken (needn’t have waited to catch that description flitter in Charles’ thoughts to know it), for a given understanding of the word, Erik knows he is. But to be deemed so feels too much like being labeled and Erik loathes labels with a burning passion; it is too close a reminder of how it’d all begun – that fucking death threat to pin the star on his person. ‘Broken’. Erik finds the word so trivial, so shallow. He doesn’t think it can ever fully encompass all that he is.

He’s… much more than six letters. A complexity that often boggles even Charles’ overly intelligent mind.

\---

For a reason he cannot entirely put to words, Erik finds himself following Charles like a gottdamn terrier puppy even if the man pouted(however endearing) more than any grown man should – which should make said man the gottdamn puppy and not him. But Charles’ optimism and unfailing hope is like a bloody beacon he cannot help but be intrigued by. So he follows. And Erik tells himself, only for now.

“Holy shiiii – ” Sean clams up a the rising brow on Charles’ face. “Er… I mean, _wow_. Right, _wow_ , sir. This is erm, _yours_?” Raven smirks at the disbelief and liberal amount of awe in the hoarse voice.

“It’s _ours_ now,” Charles answers firmly.

The sprawling estate of Westchester is majestic in its architecture and Erik would’ve had a similar reaction if not for how desensitized he’d become over the years. Nazi hunting had taken him to a great many places.

\---

For the first time in his life, Erik feels a modicum of peace in being surrounded by people like him. He doesn’t have to have his guard up all the time; not with them.

But he does, anyway.

Charles spends a lot of his time watching Erik and he wishes there was another way to say it without sounding like a horrible stalker. But Erik fascinates him like no other ever has, a walking conundrum that drives Charles absolutely insane inside. He wishes he could figure out what goes on behind those unreadable mercury green eyes. But Charles has glimpsed that beautifully tainted mind that day in the water and though Charles may have said he knew everything about Erik, he does not. Not entirely. He hasn’t seen what lies within the dark mass that had existed unmistakably at the back of the man’s memory core. But Erik had been right that night, he knew men of his character – well… for a given meaning of similar (he’s never met anyone quite like Erik – nobody so transparent and yet numbingly complex at the same time), and he knew invading such a mind would be suicidal. And Charles rather liked to live. Ergo, it had become an unwritten rule that he would not dig into Erik’s head, would not read his thoughts lest they were broadcasted so loudly that Charles could pick them up on the surface. Communicating telepathically was in itself a challenge; even now he could still sense Erik’s unease though he’d instantaneously cover it up.

\---

They had a routine. And Charles _loved_ their routine. He’d created the routine ever since the first morning he’d stumbled to the kitchen at seven in the morning after a restless night. Erik had sauntered in not long after, sweat glistening on his _naked_ chest. Charles was jolted back to his senses as the hot tea he’d been pouring overflowed from the cup and scalded the hand that had been resting idly on the countertop.

“G-Good morning,” he’d stuttered, his cheeks an embarrassing pink. Erik had frozen in his walk when he’d first noticed he was not alone. He gave a pointed nod before hastily pulling on the shirt Charles had initially thought a peculiar find in the kitchen.

Charles had seen them then and he’s come to understand it now. In the peeking sunlight, Erik’s torso had been illuminated starkly and beyond that _perfect_ musculature (Good lord, stop it, Charles), the shocking amount of scars came into focus. Erik’s body is littered with ridges and distortion of colors as the markings snake about that sculpted body and peppered the tanned skin with short, ragged lines. But what had Charles swallowing thickly was the glaring mutilation to the man’s back.

Now, Erik was by no means bulky or anything remotely close, on the contrary, there wasn’t an ounce of excess on his body. The lean and powerful physique honed over the years for survival – for the singular purpose of being a weapon; his body another mere extension of his will and power. So, when the man had engaged in the simple act of putting on a shirt, the clear definition of his backbone showed with every minute shift – and this made things worse. Thankful that Erik hadn’t been facing him, Charles’ eyes had widened at the long, mottled scar tissue that ran along the entire spine. It had stretched itself over the bone as Erik had pulled on the top and for a sickening moment, Charles had a disturbing image of the scar tearing apart to split the –

People say that if you stared at someone long enough, said person would somehow feel your presence. Charles hadn’t believed much in that till then.

Erik had stiffened ostensibly as he felt the gaze linger too long on him. Slowly, he had turned to level Charles with a glare, defensive, waiting, expecting judgment. Coiled.

Charles had known in that instant, how important his next move would be. He’d seen it in people before, in their memories – he was no psychologist but he knew. Everything had fallen on his next reaction. Erik had been instinctively readying himself for rejection, repulsion, _fear_ and would’ve met it with calculated disdain and distance; those metal walls would be reinforced and Charles would be damned if he was to be the cause of it.

Erik had been remotely surprised to receive a blank expression from the other man. Neutrality. That was new – Erik couldn’t decide if that was a small mercy to obvious disgust. But then those blue eyes softened and Erik had been tempted to walk away.

He was not to be pitied.

“Do they still hurt?” Charles had asked quietly.

Blinking, Erik had not seen that question coming. Had it been meant as mockery? They were _scars_ after all. But the telepath had seemed resolute, entirely too serious. Earnest.

Charles had thought he’d managed to offend him (stupid tendency to say stupid things at the wrong bloody time) when Erik hadn’t replied. Calmly, as if oblivious to the question, the man had turned away and made for the door.

“Sometimes.” Charles had almost missed it. His eyes flew sharply to Erik’s slightly hunched (tired; resigned) figure paused by the door. Looking over his shoulder but not at Charles.

Unreadable.

\---

“Mornin’ Mum,” a cough. “ _Dad_.”

Erik choked on the bit of toast that had the misfortune of being in his mouth. Irritation sparked, warring with bewilderment as he whirled on the teenager. Alex visibly paled and flinched.

“I-It was,” the normally guarded boy composed himself. “I lost a dare last night.”

“Why am _I_ the mother?” Charles fairly squawked. Erik felt his eyebrows rise even higher at the other _adult_ in the kitchen. Raven sniggered at the incredulous stare aimed at her brother.

“What?” Indignant. _Mature, Charles._

Erik winced at receiving the full Xavier pout. He was going to grey prematurely.

 _I’m every bit as… masculine as you, thanks very much._

 _Of course you are_ , Charles frowned at the patronizing tone.

 _How am I not, then, Herr Lensherr?_ Lord, Erik could practically hear the pout.

 _You drink tea for water –_

 _Do NOT discriminate against tea drinkers!_ Erik gritted his teeth at the interruption.

 _The children dub you ‘mother hen’, and which self-respecting man wears cardigans all the time?_ Erik barreled his way through, unwilling to be cut off by Charles again. The awkward silence had Erik peering at Charles; the petulance was still there. He sighed inwardly.

 _What’s wrong with cardigans?_ Hurt.

 _Ask the children_. Charles huffed.

 _You **like** the cardigans_. Erik stifled his exasperated chuckle at the accusatory voice in his head.

 _I do_ , Erik shamelessly agreed with admirable nonchalance.

“Erm. Professor? Yoo hoo – ”, Sean’s voice abruptly filtered in.

“Oh, get a room,” Raven quipped with feigned disgust. “It’s _breakfast_ t, Charles.”

Erik quietly watched him turn an amusing shade of red.

\---

It is strange and perhaps worse… to taste freedom but be bereft of basking in its entirety. Or so Erik thinks in any case.

There are days where Erik can’t help but believe this is all an illusion, an unnecessary distraction. It feels too much like hiding when all he wants is to leave and hunt ~~Schmidt~~ Shaw down. Staying here, playing house – it is still a cage in its own right.

And then there are those days that begin so evil and at the end turn out so bright that Erik desires too strongly to hold on to it, to live in the happiness on endless loop. To be content in escape.

He cannot quite fathom nor does he wish to entertain the notion that his mind was read, but Charles always seems capable of ferreting out his hideouts amidst the vast estate. And he grudgingly feels relief when that floppy brown hair makes a cautious appearance from behind a door or tree or pillar… For a moment, Erik can convince himself that he is cared for, and without an ulterior motive.

They don’t always speak. The first time Charles sought him out, he’d been an inch from snapping a curt “Leave me be. Please.” The last thing Erik wanted was to engage in idle chatter – he’d embraced solitude for a reason. But Charles had merely given him a pleasant smile and seated himself a fair distance from him on the grass. Erik was on edge for the ensuing ten minutes, waiting for that ~~soothing~~ voice to fill the silence. He spared a sideward glance at the man, and found him looking serenely at the clouds, his head pillowed in his arms. Neither spoke a word.

And if Erik had wound up spending quite a time watching Charles nap, he wasn’t about to admit to it.

\---

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Erik flinches a little at the sudden hit of ice against his abdomen where a pale hand had left a bottle of beer.

“I thought you didn’t keep booze with the kids around,” he comments, though not unappreciative. Sitting upright, Erik pops the metal cap off with a flick of his fingers. It’s a quiet summer’s day and the cold drink is a welcome respite.

“I thought you’d hit me for talking. You _are_ at one of your _spots_ ,” Charles says. “But to answer your question, I sent Alex on a secret mission to acquire these. He’s a good lad, imagined he wouldn’t be one to fuss.” Erik snorts by way of agreement.

“I wouldn’t have hit you. Not for something like this,” He quietly remarks. “Walk away, maybe.”

Charles grins. “So? Care to share?”

Erik shoots him a dark look. “No, I do not. But since you probably won’t leave me alone if I don’t, I was merely wondering how you always know where to find me. Especially when I seek to be **alone.” _How, if you aren’t supposed to be reading my mind._**

Charles looks scandalized. “That’s only a half-truth! And you know I wouldn’t read your mind.”

“No, I don’t.” Erik is hardly one to trust easily. That much had to be evident to _anyone_ with half a brain.

Charles worries at his lip (it is terribly distracting) and picks his words carefully.

“It isn’t easy, but I do know this entire place like the back of my hand. I just look for areas I think you might go to…” Charles explains, thoughtful.

“And the _impeccable_ timing?”

Erik watches as that ~~damned, adorable~~ damnable pout takes shape. “That,” Charles clears his throat and Erik cannot help but narrow his eyes. “Well, to be perfectly honest, it seems that for some inexplicable reason, my powers have latched on to your mind.”

At the abrupt storm that covers Erik’s expression, Charles hastily continues. “All I mean is that I’m more attuned to you than I am to anyone. Ever since that night. But I cannot read your mind all the same, not unless you’re deliberately talking to me… or if your thoughts are broadcasted loud enough.”

“Then how do you – ”

“It takes less for your emotions and thoughts to become apparent to me.”

Erik isn’t entirely certain how to take this bit of information. He’s torn between ‘unsettling’ and ‘indifferent’. Against his better judgment, he wants to trust; if there is anybody he wishes to believe in, it is Charles. Being around him these past weeks, Erik’s come to accept that he reluctantly feels something for that blasted smile so sweet and _pure_ like those open blue eyes. So _trusting_ , warm. But Erik knows he will not be the one to taint that innocence. Seeing and being exposed to the dark of the world by others is entirely different from being immersed in it. And getting involved with someone like Erik would destroy Charles. So, Erik tells himself that ‘love’ and other emotions were a liability. If there was _anything_ Shaw’s regime had instilled in Erik, it was a thorough understanding that nothing good could come out of affection.

“Erik?” The cautious question brings distant mercury green eyes into focus. “I really am sorry. I hadn’t meant for this to happen. If… If it bothers you too much, I guess I could try to erect a mental barrier at all times – ”

“No.”

“No?” Charles isn’t certain he heard right.

“No. Don’t do that.”

“But – ”

“I was thinking about freedom. It’s a curious thing, Charles.” He feels his heart stop at that accented take of his name. He looks up at Erik. “I’m no longer on the run. Not quite. And yet I can’t help the restlessness. It doesn’t feel right.” Charles shuffles closer, all the while aware of that intense gaze following his every move.

“You are safe here, Erik. All of us. We need only time; for the children to train, for _you_ to fully realize your power. I promise you, the day will come where we find Shaw.”

“If he doesn’t find us first.”

“He will not.”

Erik wonders how Charles can proclaim that with such conviction.

“This isn’t hiding, Erik. It’s planning.”

The bottle empty – almost. He tips it back and drains the few drops, then faces Charles.

“There is difference.” The corners of his eyes have lost its tension and Charles beams him a confident smile in return.

“There is.”


End file.
